


Grace and Motion

by roboticonography



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: That night in Veld, Steve expects that he'll have to teach a few lessons - but he's surprised by what he learns in return.





	Grace and Motion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Wondertrev Network drabble-thon](https://wondertrevnet.tumblr.com/post/165989440445/ahoy-shipmates-please-gather-your-feelings-and) on the theme "A Place to Belong."
> 
> Title inspired by “As I Am” by Paper Bird.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _There is grace and there is motion_  
>  _In the ocean_  
>  _Turning, yearning and free_  
>  _There’s a fire that eats up longing_  
>  _Destroying wrong_  
>  _And it burns inside_  
>  _Oh my lover_  
>  _Will you take me? Will you take me?_  
>  _Will you take me now?_

“You’re sure?”

“Always,” Diana replies, charmingly forthright. “Are you… not sure?”

“Me? No, no, I’m…” He interrupts himself, beguiled by the softness of her lips, getting lost in them again far too easily. “I’m sure,” he concludes, and then, punctuating each word with a kiss: “Very... very... sure.”

“Good,” she breathes, tugging at his sweater. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

His head is swimming, desire an insistent ache in the pit of his stomach. “Hang on,” he says, trying to get on top of it. He wants to do this right, wants to take his time and make sure she enjoys herself; for all her bluff about Clio’s treatises, he’s fairly certain she’s never done this before.

Nimble fingers pluck at his trouser buttons, and then: “What is _this_?”

He’s about to remind her that it’s nothing she hasn’t seen, when he realizes the source of her confusion: not the bulge in his pants, but what’s covering it.

“It’s a union suit,” he explains, trying not to laugh. “You wear it under your clothes in winter.”

She glances up at him incredulously.

“Maybe _you_ don’t,” he amends. “But us mere mortals. Gotta keep warm somehow.”

“ _Far_ too many clothes.” She rubs his wool-sheathed belly, brisk but affectionate, the way he imagines she might pet a dog.

And then suddenly, her hands are everywhere, unbuttoning and unbuckling.

“Diana—Diana, _wait_ —”

She cocks her head to one side, giving him a curious, searching look. “I don’t think this will work if we don’t undress.” Her pedantic tone would be comical, if he wasn’t already so keyed-up.

After a bit of a scuffle, which she seems to find very amusing, he succeeds in trapping her hands against his chest, just over his heart. “We should talk. Okay? Before anyone’s clothes come off.”

“Did I misunderstand?” A worried little crease appears in her brow. “You don’t want me to make love to you?”

There’s a brief moment during which Steve thinks he might be experiencing catatonic shock.

“Um,” he finally manages. Then, carefully: “I... do. But. I don’t want to take advantage.”

As usual, Diana understands the individual words perfectly, but the semantics pass her right by. “What advantage is there to take? Are we going to wrestle? That could be fun,” she adds, with a cheeky smile that makes all the blood in his upper body rush southwards.

“Well, when a lady isn’t…” He has no idea how to go on from there, so he starts over. “Listen. When a man and a woman are together—”

She nods eagerly at their joined hands— _yes, yes, together_.

He sighs heavily.

The truth is, he doesn’t want to be giving this speech—doesn’t want to have to explain all the shameful ways in which a man might put his own enjoyment before a woman’s well-being, and consider it his right to do so.

He takes a deep breath. _Third time’s the charm_. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to agree to anything you don’t want, just to make me happy. Do you understand?”

“I do. But what I want _is_ to make you happy.” She leans in, presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Let me make you happy, Steve.”

Steve gives up.

He lets her undress him the rest of the way. It’s awkward—boots and suspenders and union suit and all—and kind of backwards to how he usually operates in these types of situations. But the entire exercise entertains her to no end, and that alone is worth a little embarrassment.

When he’s down to just cotton drawers and one pair of socks (the floor is _freezing_ ) he calls a timeout, announcing, “My turn.”

With the kind of dramatic flourish only she can pull off, Diana lets her coat fall down her shoulders, dropping it on the floor. A golden goddess stands before him: long limbs, sweet, gentle curves, and those smouldering dark eyes.

After taking a moment to admire her, he wraps an arm around her waist, drawing her closer. With his boots off, the height difference between them is tipping in Diana’s favour. _So much for advantages_ , he thinks idly.

“Do we sway now?” For all her sincerity, she can be a real wiseass when she chooses. He likes that about her.

“Something like that.” He kisses his way down her neck, lingering in the hollow of her throat, while his hand finds a convenient opening in the panels of her skirt, stroking her inner thigh.

She gasps and shivers in his arms, giving over to her own pleasure the same way she does everything else: honestly and entirely.

“Too many clothes,” he teases, mouthing the words against her skin.

“Yes,” she says huskily.

The plated armour doesn’t have any immediately apparent seams or closures; he skims his hands over her back, her sides, his fingers combing the burnished surface for even the tiniest opening. He can’t recall ever being this baffled by a woman’s clothing, barring a certain long-ago youthful encounter with a girdle.

Steve is good at girdles.

He’s lousy at Amazonian armour, apparently.

Diana watches him at work, a small smile playing over her lips. “May I help?” she inquires.

“I can do it.”

“All right.”

Her hand grazes the back of his neck, then sinks into his hair, fingernails scratching pleasantly over his scalp. It feels so good that he lets his eyes close, rests his face against her shoulder. She’s warm and soft, and he wavers, briefly, between desire and utter exhaustion. But he doesn’t know when they might get another chance like this.

“You’re not helping my concentration,” he chides.

“Hmm. So you keep telling me. ‘Distracting.’” As if to illustrate, she runs her hand lightly up his side, playing his ribs like piano keys.

“Incredibly distracting.” He presses a hard kiss into her shoulder before resuming the search. “I don’t know how I get anything done.”

“Because you are not used to fighting alongside women.”

“Or, because you run around half-naked.”

She gives an indignant huff, her eyes narrowing. “I am _not_ half-naked, Steve Trevor. I am fully dressed. _Still_.”

“Then stop distracting me.”

“You do it to me, too,” she confesses. “Sometimes you’re so beautiful I forget to breathe.”

“Me?” he says, stupidly.

She touches his cheek with such tenderness that he feels disarmed—exposed, beyond simply being undressed. “You.”

He’s too far gone to be gentle with his kisses now. He bites her lip, and she surges into him like a wave, tumbling him backwards. He lands hard, winded, the bed frame creaking under his weight. No modern springs here; just a feather tick and ropes, like when he was a kid.

It isn’t until she lands on top of him that he realizes it’s _only_ her: the shocking heat of her, pressed against him, everywhere all at once.

“Hey,” he protests, half-heartedly.

“I’ll show you how it comes off,” she assures him. “Later.”

She sits up then, leaving him lost for words, spellbound. She’s a ravishing beauty, even in full daylight; by firelight, she glows, ethereal.

He lets her pull his drawers down and off, and for a long moment, she just looks. It isn’t as though Steve has anything to be embarrassed about—he wasn’t exaggerating when he described himself as _above average_ , and just now, lying on his back, he’s making a particularly impressive showing—but it still feels a little odd to be examined so intently, with more curiosity than lust.

She reaches out, tentatively, and brushes her finger along the underside of him. It’s all he can do not to quiver at her touch.

“It _moved_ ,” she says, sounding alarmed.

“That happens.”

She strokes him again, two fingers this time. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so soft.”

Steve, who is harder than he’s ever been in his life, can’t think of anything to say to that.

The next thing he knows, she’s swinging her leg over and mounting him—confidently, the way he’s seen her do with horses. He thinks that he could watch her move for the rest of his life, and consider it a life well spent.

She settles on top of him, trapping his hard length just at her entrance. It creates a pleasing friction when she rolls her hips; judging by the way her eyelashes flutter, it seems to be working for her too.

He runs his hands up her sides and over her breasts, feeling her nipples peak against his palms. Her mouth drops open, but she keeps her eyes locked on his the entire time.

He lifts up and kisses her breasts, takes a nipple into his mouth. She clutches at the back of his head, holding him to her as she works herself on him, breathing raggedly, using him to push that little button that never fails to drive a woman over the edge.

And there, finally, is undeniable proof that Diana is a woman like any other, in that regard at least: she tenses, and shudders, and cries out, before slumping into his arms.

Once she can lift her head again, they kiss for a while, lazily, like two people who have all the time in the world. Steve is painfully hard, and it’s a challenge to stay where he is when relief is so close at hand, but he meant what he said about not taking advantage.

She pulls away, frowning a little.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I thought… didn’t you enjoy it?”

“Well, yeah. But I’m not… this isn’t…” He can’t quite make the words line up. “I’m not inside you yet.”

She blinks at him, perplexed. “You are. I can feel you.”

“Not all the way.”

“There’s more?”

She looks so eager that he can’t stop the laugh that escapes him. Not for the first time, he wonders exactly what key points Clio omitted in those treatises of hers.

“There’s more,” he affirms. “Can I show you?”

“Yes, please.”

He holds her by the hips and shifts her forward, just a touch, giving him the angle he needs to slide in. He tries to go slow, gentle, watching her, waiting for the resistance he knows is coming—but there’s nothing, no stopping point, it’s just her, slick and hot and perfect, _Diana_.

A range of expressions cross her face in an instant: shock, wonder, delight.

When she’s finally fully seated, it takes everything in him not to thrust up into her. He’s embarrassingly close to finishing already.

“How’s that feel?”

“Full,” she says, in a low rasp.

“We can wait as long as you need.” He manages to get the words out, even though his voice breaks a little on the last one.

She moves—just a little, an experimental bounce up and down—and it’s so _good_ that he actually throws his head back and groans. It would be embarrassing if he wasn’t so far beyond caring.

When he opens his eyes again, she’s smiling at him.

“What?”

“That was a good sound. And a good face.” She touches his cheek, and it’s such a strange feeling, this quiet affection underpinning the hot rush of desire.

He wants to make a quip, wants to say something to put this moment back into the right perspective, but his heart feels too full for that.

She flexes her thighs, moving on him with more assurance this time, and Steve gives himself over to it. She wrings pleasure from him with each sweet rise and fall—and he didn’t expect this, didn’t expect to be able to lose himself to this feeling so completely, to forget that he was supposed to be the one leading this dance.

But maybe, he thinks, this is a kind of lesson too—a lesson in trust, in honesty, in kindness. A lesson in love. He isn’t qualified to teach that lesson, but Diana clearly is. And he’s willing to learn it, to accept those gifts from her, even as he accepts the gift of knowing her body.

Belatedly, he remembers his good manners, and coaxes her open with his fingers until he finds the spot. She stills for a moment, wide-eyed. He shifts and cants his hips upwards, changing the angle and allowing her to rock back and forth, chasing each sensation in turn. She bites her lip, closes her eyes, says a word in a language he doesn’t know.

The bed creaks and sways, the headboard knocking against the wall. There’s a dim realization that both of them are probably going to catch hell for this in the morning—and then it’s gone, pushed out of his mind by the heat of her body, the softness of her skin, and her kisses, gone frantic and sloppy in the midst of everything else she has to focus on.

She comes again, pulsing around him, gasping his name. Her release seems to flow into him as well, crashing over him in waves; he’s vaguely aware of giving a few last wild, uncoordinated thrusts, before spilling into her with a stifled cry.

Afterwards, she stays on top of him, limbs curled around him, keeping him inside of her until well after he’s gone soft.

He doesn’t want to move, but she’s heavier than she looks, and he can feel his leg starting to cramp up.

“Hey.” He drops a kiss into her hair.

“Mm.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m gonna be sore in the morning if we stay like this.”

She lets him roll her gently on her side, keeping her leg locked around his hip. When he slips out of her, she gives a sigh of disappointment.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I need a little break. Though, if you still need more…” He dances his fingers over her thigh. “There’s more than one way to get the job done.”

She shakes her head. “I liked being so close to you.”

He tucks the quilt around them both. He knows he should get dressed and go to his own room, but he’s bone tired, and they aren’t fooling anyone at this point anyhow.

“This part is good too,” he says, hearing his own voice as though it belongs to someone else.

She turns onto her back, pulling him along until he’s cradled in her arms, his head pillowed on her breast—and Steve can’t picture the last time he felt such a sense of safety, of belonging. Or if he’s ever felt it.

“I gotta be up early.” He’s already sinking into sleep like a warm bath, his body weightless, his mind adrift.

“Then you should sleep now.” She’s touching his hair lightly, brushing it back. “So we can make love again before the dawn.”

“Solid plan,” he murmurs, the words muffled against her skin.

If there’s a reply, sleep takes him before he hears it.


End file.
